Words and Music
by marzoog
Summary: She doesn’t know why she wants to kiss him (she is only words, but her mind constructs lipskissloveyoukisskisskisskisssunlightkisskissforever when she sees him)


**A/N Wow, I haven't written Harry Potter for the longest time! Anyway, as usual, here is a Ron/Hermione, except this one also features funky uses of a semi-colon. It is rather different. There is a reference to Oscar Wilde's _An Ideal Husband _in here. Please just try to like it, and I hope you do! **

**Words and Music**

**by**** marzoog**

_Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent. _  
**-Victor Hugo**

She doesn't know when no longer wanted the gossamer illusion; when she realized she wanted the stoic comfortable feeling not of love but of rest; a pair of warm, safe arms and another pair of hands to help with the dishes and reading bedtime stories and not make her feel like tool; someone to justify it all for her. That was what she wanted, not cloud hot passion. 

She doesn't know when she realized that she didn't want kisses or passion in the rain; when she felt that romance was becoming a rag doll, flopping into the arms of a man by a mere touch of lips; when she found she wanted someone whose presence didn't make her heart flop, or her blood trek through her veins at the speed of light; when she wanted someone who would walk beside her and hold his coat on her muddied path. But that only happens in those romance novels that she spends all night avoiding like beestings in the library. 

She doesn't know when she stopped living, when words merged into reality, when silence with a book said more than a several hour long conversation, and her eyes almost became permanently glazed; it happened as seamlessly as a Tennyson poem: one day she was real, the next she was ninety-nine percent real, than ninety-eight, then ninety-seven, then ninety-six…until she was only words, and viewed events at Hogwarts as secondary. 

She doesn't know what exactly is so gallant about him; he is coarse and unrefined as a Medieval undershirt and can't tell a "fellyphone" from a "velevision" but something in him is a lullaby; he soothes her when she is about to break, he knows when she needs excitement of bickering most of the time (sometimes it comes up without her want of it); his eyes happily drown her in their honey texture and shine in class on honeyed days. 

She doesn't know when she started to depend on him; when he started to seem to tell her how the world turned in his overly big hands; when he burrowed his way into her heart like Shakespearian clichés have into writing, the sunlight creating amber highlights in her hair melting them together like a kind of fool's gold. 

She doesn't know why she wants to kiss him (she is only words, but her mind constructs _lipskissloveyoukisskisskisskisssunlightkisskissforever_ when she sees him) but in her head she bottled things up and placed them on a shelf in her mental attic when she found they defizzeled like Coke-cola, expecting this one to be the same; but it stayed furiously carbonated in her mind, fizzling and brewing and bubbling, and, she hopes, it will cause her brain to wake up of its neon-glazed slumber with the possibility of connecting to another human: a jolt of human Pepper-Up Potion, if you will. 

She doesn't know why he puts up with her, her bush-like, twig colored hair sticking out like taffy, her eyes like Cadbury's Chocolate Buttons, and a temper as loud as Hippogriff's hooves on autumn turned dirt; yet he still will absorb her words like a muddy ground; he is gallant. 

She doesn't know what right he has to look so adorable, with his clementine colored hair and crinkly smile that makes his beauty feel natural in her arms, and his brilliant imperfections; Oscar Wilde (whom she regards as a friend in her lined up word of charcoal symbols) was wrong (but Robert Chiltern was a stupid person anyway, before she mentally reminds herself that he was a product of connecting nerve cells and not a real man), she can learn to love him for them. 

She doesn't know what to say when he does kiss her; words, her whole motherland matrix, crashes around her like a simile of symbols in motion; she always liked percussion and rock music, despite what they say in those whispers flowing behind her like drapes _(that girl is boring; does she ever do anything besides read?; I fancy that Weasley boy, why does she get 'im?)._

She doesn't know why, but this life of his musical kisses and worded matrix that combines to make a song of weeping power might be just what she needs after all; she doesn't know where the future will take them, down the road lesser or more traveled by, but he will be there, with his un-ironed shirt smile and blushing ears and cherry lips showing her a new language of internal music. 

And then she will know so many things words could not teach her. 

**A/N This is an odd one, folks.**** I tried to get it to have as many different images as I could to describe things, and that is why it is so overly poetic (or tries to be, depending on how you see it). Please give me some feedback. Death will come on swift wings to anyone who even says the words "semi-colon" and "improper grammar" in the same sentence in a review of this fic. Dude, I KNOW IT IS NOT GRAMMARICALLY CORRECT!!!! Just cut me a break for originality, please. **

**And make sure to have a great day! **

**marzoog******


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